


fucking blue

by KukuiOlelo



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Crack, Fluff, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Humor, complete fucking crack, i wrote this in like an afternoon its shit, ish, what rating is this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 10:25:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9543659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KukuiOlelo/pseuds/KukuiOlelo
Summary: The one question, destined to stump philosophers and theologians galaxy wide, so great and insurmountable none can plumb its depth unscathed, is about to be answered.Why the fuck does Voltron look like a five piece crayon box fused with a stoners 3 am trip?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning, this is such crack. Don't say I didn't warn you.

You know the problem with space is that it's pretty much defined by stuff not being there. Sure, they’ve got the Galra tracker now, but probability is just that. This meant, to the relief and chagrin of most residents of the ship, there was a lot of time when the bombardment of activity said “fuck it” and the defenders of freedom in the galaxy were left desperately trying to entertain themselves in an endless void of dull.

The castle, bless its semi sentient Balmeran heart, still insists in the subtle little way of it's that the team, mice and assorted refugees included, eat something resembling a meal together every arbitrarily defined day. This day, there were no miscellaneous drifters wandering the halls to round up, so the castle simply resigned the keepers of the mightiest weapon known to the universe to eat a half hearted meal of space goo in the area assigned by the humans as a “living room.” Allura was chatting with the mice, as she was the only one who understood them and they the only ones who could understand her. Shiro sat resolute, trying and mostly failing not to look bored out of his everloving mind. Pidge poked at a screen while Hunk poked at an engine, and all involved pointedly ignored Lance and Keith's newest arbitrary tiff. Something about the pool and “no homo”, but let's be honest, not even the proverbial omniscient narrator can work those two out.  

From his place on the floor, Hunk sat up, an expression not unlike that of a person who’s lost their glasses and is frustrated with their very existence in the first place. “Hey, why do the lions look like that?” The others looked up in various states of confusion, curiosity, and mild annoyance. Pidge made an inquisitive noise. “Like shouldn't it have camo or something? One arm’s bright red, one leg’s yellow, nothing matches.” Hunk gestured widely with his screwdriver, nearly taking out Shiro’s eye. 

“It’s not even classy,” Lance mutters, ”Horrible color scheme, if you ask me, so gaudy.” Everyone turns to stare at Lance because the fuck since when did he give a shit. "Hey, I have layers." By one of the wonders of our intricate, nuanced, infinitely improbably universe, every human felt their neurons fire in neat succession, telling them to just let that go for now,  and turned towards Allura expectantly.

Allura furrowed her brow. “That- well, it’s because- well- I honestly do not know.” She frowned at the mice. “I’ve never quite thought about it, I guess they just are.” Pidge stood with a screech of their chair and the look of a small, bespectacled owl on a mission, turned, and walked out the door with the snappish certainty of a robot built by middle schoolers. The door closed behind them with a delayed swish, like the castle itself was befuddled with their exit. 

The team blinked in near unison, before shrugging and returning to their natural states. Hunk reached over to Pidge’s plate to steal the last of their food like substance. 

 

Around what would be noon on earth, but due to our heroes being in fuck-all nowhere, galactic edition, was more of a vaguely defined time in which everyone takes a break from whatever they would call work and drift through the common room to grab what can be vaguely defined as food in a quantity that can be vaguely defined as a meal. This time roughly corresponds across the paladins, due to a vital sense of regimine from military academy that would be envied by the ancient Roman legionaries, once they stopped asking questions such as “What is this strange chariot?” and “Why do you smell so nice?” and “Latin, do you speak it motherfucker?”. 

Chatter was smattered across the common space like a halfhearted splatter of paint on the blocked art students canvas. The least social members of their company were about to leave for not necessarily more productive, but most definitely less awkward, quarters, when the door swung open, revealing a very tired, very frazzled, and very, very angry looking Pidge. 

Let’s be honest with each other, that description does not give justice to the sheer amount of fucked up Pidge looked at the present moment. Imagine capital D Death, Biblical Death, Revelations Death. Now imagine him, or her, or most accurately them, I do not believe this particular conceptual personification has a sense of gender, went for a night of the town with the other three bringers of Armageddon for Famine’s 12,000th birthday. Now imagine Death after five Jager Bombs and a shot of tequila, doing the walk of shame back to where they parked their rotting skeletal horse, only to find that someone had jacked its hooves, and they now have to take the bus to work, because entropy doesn’t take sick days. That is how fucked up Pidge looked. 

Breaking the silence resulting from their return from the land of damnation, Pidge slammed a hard drive as thick as Hunk’s biceps down on the table, and a puff of smoke exploded out from where it landed. Breathing hard, and looking more than a little deranged, Pidge looked around at their concerned, scared, and hungry comrades in arms. “It’s all from a personality quiz made by a dumbass 12 year old 11,000 years ago.” The room fell silent, save the an awkward shuffling of feet. 

Finally, some brave and blessed soul broke the silence. “What.” 

Pidge gestured violently in Allura’s direction. “The fucking- Those pink face things.” This statement was met with dawning comprehension on Alluras part. Everyone else just looked confused.

Allura clasped her hands together. “I remember those! They’d guess your face markings and your personality, I always got pink.” She sighed and looked wistfully into the middle distance, and then frowned in confusion. “Wait, that’s how they chose the-”

Pidge threw their hands in the air. “YES. That’s how they chose the fucking colors. Black for leadership, red for ‘passion’, whatever that fucking means, its all from this goddamn quiz!” They slammed their hands down on the table with enough force rattle the drive, looking like they were just about ready to take down the Galra empire with a rusty pipe and a scaultrite disk on a string. That is to say, murderous.

Allura did not speak because she was experiencing a paradigm shift. Shiro did not speak because he had the tact to let the situation cool down before voicing any thoughts aloud. Hunk did not speak because he had the people skills to tell that Pidge just needed to vent. Keith did not speak because he had the survival instincts to know an imminent bloodthirsty rampage when he sees one. Lance, on the other hand- 

“Cool!” Everyone turned towards Lance, silently telling him in no uncertain terms that the time to shut up was yesterday. He did not heed these warnings, and said, “What would mine be? I want to take the quiz.”

Somewhere in Pidges oversized brain, the bomb timer clicked down to zero almost audibly. “BLUE” They screamed with the force of a charging horde “IT WOULD BE BLUE, LANCE, BLUE” Pidge aggressively paced back and forth, gesturing with motions that could probably take your head off if caught in the crossfires. “YOUR LION IS BLUE YOUR EYES ARE BLUE, YOUR FUCKING SHIRT IS BLUE YOUR COLOR IS BLUE FUCKING QUIZNAK BLUE YOU-” By unanimous agreement, everyone not having a sleep deprivation induced meltdown turned on their heels and scurried out of the room like rats off a sinking ship. Pidge continued their descent into frustration flavored madness, ranting and crying in turn and slowly slumping onto the floor in stubborn exhaustion.

 

Curiosity does strange things to people. This particular person, paladin of Voltron, legendary defender of the universe, hero of planets scattering the stars, was curled in a ball under the nearest table, half asleep but still stubbornly awake and complaining about aliens and dumb fucking plans. Thus is the nature of genius, I guess. They did not however, by some strange misfiring of synapses and top down processing, hear the louder-than-they-think hissing whispers from behind the door jam. “You should do it.”

“Like hell, you do it.”

“Someone do something.”

“Everyone shut up!”

“Aw quisnak, just give it here.”

A skateboard, or the Altean equivalent of such, rolled into the room pushed by an unseen party. It carried a pathetic looking robot whirring forlornly, a box of miscellaneous tools, and three earth adjacent juice boxes. Pidge looked up, finally, as the squeak of misoiled wheels and silent desperation neared them. They looked at the thing with the face of someone having woken up from a bad night's sleep to find that their alarm clock has been turned into a small sentient tree, but can’t yet be bothered to care without coffee. 

Pidge picked up the robot, who beeped at them in a way that almost made them smile, and inspected its rockets. The robot ran its fans, almost sounding like mechanical cat. This time, Pidge did smile. “Yeah yeah, little guy, let me see.” They picked up a screwdriver out of the box and started fiddling, talking to the robot about busted carburetors, twelve year olds, and fucking blue. A collective sigh of relief, audible, but this time heard, was released from behind the door jam. Pidge looked up, chuckled, and picked up a juice box. The robot whirred happily, butting against Pidge’s hand as it spins happy circles on the carpet. Someone whispered ‘lets go’ from behind the door, and Pidge ignored the shuffling of feet from the halway and took a distracted sip from their juice box.

All was well.

**Author's Note:**

> someones been reading too much hitchhikers guide to the galaxy
> 
> Based on a tumblr post I can't seem to find any more, but the gist was what the hell is up with those Altean face markings, and then someone suggested dumb personality quizzes, and here we are.


End file.
